"The prosthetic—does the water bother it? Like, is there maintenance or do you have to do anything special or—" I trail off, suddenly worried I've overstepped, but he doesn't look offended.
"It's waterproof," he says simply. "Most newer ones are. Just have to dry it after, make sure nothing gets corroded. Not a big deal."
"Okay. Cool." I hesitate, then commit. "You're actually relaxed right now. For the first time since I met you. It's weird. I don't hate it."
His mouth twitches. "I'm not always tense."
"Holt, you're literally always tense. It's your default setting. You probably came out of the womb already stressed about something."
"Maybe you make me tense."
"Oh, definitely," I agree cheerfully. "But like, in a fun way. Not a bad way. More like a 'this tiny person talks too much and I don't know what to do with that' way."
"That's accurate."
"See? Self-awareness. We love that for me."
He's looking at me now—really looking, the kind that feels like it means something, like there's a conversation happening underneath the conversation—and I'm suddenly very aware of how close we are. How the water makes everything feel more intimate. How his gaze drops briefly to my mouth beforecoming back up, and how that makes my breath catch and my stomach flip and every nerve ending wake up and pay attention.
The moment stretches, charges, and I'm about to say something—what, I don't know, but something—when Finn cannonballs directly between us, sending up a wall of water that absolutely drenches us both.
"SNEAK ATTACK!" he shouts, shaking water from his hair like a dog.
"BETRAYAL!" I sputter, shoving wet hair out of my face, half-laughing and half-ready to drown him. "FINN, WHAT THE HELL!"
"I've been planning that for ten minutes," he says proudly. "You two were having a Moment with a capital M. I had to. It's my job as the third wheel."
"We weren't—" I start, but Holt's already swimming toward shore.
"You're the worst," I tell Finn.
"I know," he says cheerfully. "It's my best quality. Come on, let's go dry off and I'll tell you about the time Holt tried to jump off the cliff on a dare and almost chickened out."
"I didn't almost chicken out," Holt calls from where he's already climbing onto the rocks.
"YOU ABSOLUTELY DID!" Finn yells back. "You stood up there for like five minutes!"
"I was assessing."
"You were SCARED!"
"Strategic evaluation."
"SEMANTICS!"
By late afternoon, we've migrated to the rocks, sprawled on towels in the sun. I'm on my stomach, eyes closed, arms stretched overhead, feeling the heat soak into my skin, into my bones. Everything feels heavy and good, like my bones havemelted into something softer. Sun-drunk. Water-tired. Perfectly, completely content.
"I could live here," I announce to the universe. "Just... permanently. Become a swimming hole cryptid. People would tell stories about me."
"The legend of Scout," Finn says from somewhere to my left, sounding equally sun-drunk. He's on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes. "She emerges only to judge people's diving technique and offer unsolicited commentary."
"It's a noble calling. Someone has to maintain standards."
"You maintained nothing today," Finn says. "Your cliff jump was average at best."
"Excuse me, it was EXCELLENT."
"It was adequate."
